Nylon Strings
by OhShucks
Summary: Music; the progeny of words and sounds, the declaration of one's heart, mind and soul; and a ravishing mixture of alluring crescendos. Mending the crimson stained battlefield of dueling cultures, tying and sewing two shattered hearts back into unification, fabricating unspoken bonds between man, woman and child, tearing down cemented walls of a fragmented past.
1. Chapter 1

His fingers were chubby; stout little sausages wrapped in milky skin, fingernails lengthy and unkempt with grime lining the sheltered pink. One imagines the hands of a pianist as lengthy and clean, with smooth, creamy covering, eloquence and preciseness, fingers arched at the joints as if born with a destiny physically imprinted. But his defied cliché.

He was proud of the vibrant veins or the patches of discolored skin, it's doubtful that he would be, but one always liked to think he looked at his hands. They truly bore the gift; though his fingers seemed to slide down the keys awkwardly, fumbling over one another and hitting the correct keys as if by accident, the music reverberated about the room, within your ear, and you knew. You could feel it. Few musicians truly bring their work through their heart. But every note he struck was like touching a piece of it. It took a while to grow accustomed to the feeling; it was almost eerie, the resonance of emotions the blonde felt every time his fingers graced the alabaster keys.

Sunlight bathed his figure in an unearthly glow as the sun rose along the rooftops of the towering skyscrapers, each ray like the gentle caress of a lover against his brow or his cheek, or the embrace of a child, or the touch of God. He would gaze fixatedly at the piano as he played, and prior to it would he survey the instrument, running his hands lovingly over the mahogany, tracing each curve with his fingertips, almost recoiling at times as if he was unworthy for its presence. And then he would lift the casing, run his palms against the length of the keys, and echo them out once more.

5:12 AM

Leaving the ebony instrument with a final reverberant, he arose from velvet seating, bare feet padding on the wooden floors creaking with each extension of his bony feet.

A lethargic yawn creaked from his vocal chords, running calloused digits through his frizzy blonde locks. Fingers shaking, cramping in stiffness; blasphemies uttered in hoarseness, massaging each joint as he hissed. Azure eyes invaded with crimson veins of exhaustion, replacing the porcelain flesh was black and blue capillaries, bruised. Insomnia the brass knuckled fist that blackened his fair porcelain flesh.

Walking like a man risen from his grave, the 20 year old stumbled past his grandfather's snores, knitting his thin eyebrows together as he rubbed eyes.

In his exhaustion, the young man could hear the sounds of distant voices, Don Knotts perhaps? His ears perked at the sound of the customary whistle of the classic 60's show that his grandfather adored so much. Alabaster tainted with ink, the age before the vibrant yet alluring colors of flat screened glass, never did his azure eyes adjust to such glaring, at least without deepening the shade of umbra patches that rested under his bleary eyes, slumber quite scarce.

In its place was the harmonious combination of notes G, A, B, C, D, E, and F, closing insomnia stained lids for mere seconds on full, quarter and half rests, stopping repetitiously only for when his bony extremities would shout sharply in severe pain massaging each palm out of such rigid position, letting his heavy head collapse at the pillow of melanoid and chalky keys; the monotonous metronome ticks, a mothers lullaby as bloodshot orbs shut in finality, ending the concerto of insomnia and restlessness and letting the symphony one would call A Dream, dance across the keys.

Placing a light English Muffin in the silver appliance, the coffee almost dripping in the same lethargy caliber of the sluggish blonde.

_I know I was up late... I'm never this exhausted, must be crashing..._

Wearily listening to the usual morning groans that croaked out of his grandfathers throat, as he stretched, unhinging his ancient bones with a cringe worthy _crack_.

Looking towards Armin with an apprehensive stare, "Up all night again Armin?" The stout man inquired as he opened the scarcely filled fridge, hoping to find some form of decent nourishment. Only to find a half bottle of relish, a few slivers of bread, and what was assumed to be rotting fruit.

"Yeah..." Groggily yawning as he sipped at the large mug of liquid caffeine, "I need to keep practicing for that audition..."

"What audition?"

"For the 104th St. Sina Orchestra," he replied spreading the last of the butter on the toasted piece of bread, making a small mental note to buy another package, "They have an opening for the piano concerto... Professor Smith really wants me to get it."

"Is he the guy with the blonde hair and those ridiculous eyebrows?"

He nodded as he bit into the toasted grain, "Mhm..."

The elderly man ran a feeble hand through the scanty wasps of hoary, Armin could now see his zaffre veins protruding from his sagging, ashen skin, liver spots dotted along, as if someone had come along with an pallet of umber ink, painting him almost like a canvas; the artist wanting to cover any trace of the past portrait. The robust mass of muscle of his late twenties had perished in his ancient form, stout, stooped over almost painfully. Bags rested under stormy eyes, wrinkled and folded as time dragged onward, stretching the once securely clenched skin into small flaps on his cheeks.

Indeed time had truly won the race with him, but alas Armin would never dare say how sickly he looked.

"I'll have to go food shopping later today, we're running low again." The aged man grumbled as he hobbled back to the living room, the black and white screen still presenting The Andy Griffith Show, the cliche audience laughter sounding with each corny escapade.

He clenched the mug tightly as he stumbled in bare feet across the wooden floors, "I'll do it, I've been putting it off-"

"No, Armin." he said reclining back into the sooty, feces colored love seat,

"I can do it on my way home from work it's no..." A yawn croaked, "...no problem..."

"You're overworking yourself boy. You need 8 hours of sleep and by the looks of it you barely get an hour." He scolded the sunflower. "You need to sleep Armin, one of these days you'll just collapse-"

"I'm willing to suffer that consequence." he grumbled, the scolding had gotten quite old.

Gulping down the last of the caffeine, he made his way back to his bedroom, stumbling and walking into things; still quite sleep deprived.

Stripping out of plaid boxers into ecru shaded pants, an alabaster polo slipped under an ashen sweater vest. Clenching an elastic hair tie between calcium rich pearl whites as he yanked his sunflower hair into a tight ponytail, cursing around his toothbrush as his side bangs slipped from hold, now getting the mint paste caught in strands, spitting.

Packing dead weight novels of sheet music into his burnt sienna satchel, slipping comfortably into an ochre pair of Loafers, pulling an ink stained suit jacket onto his scrawny shoulders, flipping a cardinal plaid scarf, preparing himself to face the fierce glacial bite of late November zephyrs.

After exchanging a final send off, Armin made his way down the winding staircases, picking up his stride to catch the 6:40 train to the conservatory.

* * *

Posters pass by in a lightning flash dazed orbs meeting the floor, avoiding the gaze of the few people aboard the contraption.

There was a businesswoman, holding deathly onto her laptop to each jostle of the train, an old man, whisked off to a world of dreams as he fell to slumber against the metal pole and a presumably divorced father with a young girl resting upon his lap. Of course there was Armin, groggy, miserably attempting to rub the exhaustion out if his orbs before facing his morning lectures.

The 20 minute ride was an agonizingly slow one, the blonde briskly exited the metal doors, only to be met by a sharp crescendo of inner city chat.

Businessman shouting blasphemies at their imbecile co workers into their cellphones, infants whining and wailing in hunger, the angry shout of a mother pushing her children on the train. The smell of greasy food, intoxicating mounds of cologne and perfume, the grotesque stench of leftover garbage, and quite a variety of other stenches that he would never dare to identify.

Horrendous stenches and ear piercing infants aside, the blonde jogged up the concrete staircases and into the piercing morning air.

Streets built in agonizing morning traffic, the sound of angry honking scaring him half to death, alarming. As if shouting at him to brighten his eyes and wake up. Narrowly avoiding various bikers, runners and skateboarders that flew in the opposite direction, some colliding into people, buildings, hell even a parked vehicle someone carelessly parked along the roadside.

Taking a sudden curve, he once more climbed the concrete stairs into the finely crafted brick building, ducking to avoid the humongous instruments that could knock a man to heaven. Brushing past carelessly brisk students dropping various music sheets as they attempt to beat the morning buzzer.

Amidst the chaos of the dawn, he fished the crumpled schedule out of his jacket pocket, trying to recall where he had to go first.

Was it Music Theory or Orchestra Ensemble?

His eyes scanned the severely folded parchment, landing on the Monday schedule. Labeled with black ink and chicken scratch, room A207, on the third floor.

Orchestra Ensemble

To most musicians, it would be a joy to practice their blessed craft at such early hours.

But being in the state he was in, Armin wasn't really in the tenor to listen to booming drums or squealing trumpets. He would rather sit in Music Theory and listen to Professor Hannes drone off his hangover, than shatter his eardrums, especially this early in the day.

Crinkling the notebook paper back into its original ball form he shoved it back into his pocket, sighing in preparatory agony, and began his mountainous trek up the spiraling staircase.

* * *

"God Armin, you look terrible." Was the first comment he received as he stepped into the amphitheater lecture room, coming from the mouse haired male he called one of his childhood friends, Eren Jaeger.

"Thanks for the compliment Eren..." He croaked as he rubbed his eyes, taking a seat next to the male. "Love to hear it."

"You weren't up all night again were you?" Inquired the female next to Eren, a vermillion scarf wrapped under her coal colored hair, Mikasa Ackerman.

"Well-"

"Not again Armin, you know it isn't good for you." She hissed coldly, her mother hen nature seeping into her normal blunt tone.

"I-I know Mikasa."

Friends since childhood, all three looked out for each other. They protected one another from harm, well it was more like Mikasa protected them. Even though Eren never would confess to it, he wasn't the best of fighters.

As they grew older, each found a craft, a musical instrument they each found solace and tranquility in. Mikasa the cello, Eren the Viola, and Armin the piano.

In coincidence they all applied to the same conservatory in Sina, and still stuck close to each other.

He stifled a croaked yawn, resting a hand on his cheek, patiently waiting for the morning sugar rush to kick in.

"He's a busy guy Mikasa, he works part time, takes extra piano lessons and goes to the conservatory, cut him a break for not sleeping. Hell I barely get any."

Armin knew Mikasa would obviously contradict whatever Eren said, and always ended the conversation with the last word. She always knew what was right, always a mother to Armin and Eren.

"You're normally up all night copying last minute notes or suffering from your internet addiction, Eren." She stated, returning to a cold stare, "It's becoming habit, I'm just worried, you'll drive yourself to a break down."

"I'll be okay Mikasa... T-Trust me, I'm fine." Armin sighed tucking a fallen blonde strand behind his ear. "Please, don't worry about me, alright?" He forced a simper in reassurance, hopefully easing her anxiety.

Although hesitant, she curled into a smile, mouthing the words of 'okay' it was after that, Mikasa ended the discussion there. A curtain of her onyx locks falling in front of her face, as she turned to talk to another classmate.

Eren's countenance soon turned into a contorted mockery of his step-sister's face, managing to make Armin playfully punch the Burnett in the shoulder, "You know she'd kick your sorry ass to high heaven if she saw that."

Before Eren could come back, the room came to a sudden silence, as a man of buff stature and parted blonde hair marched into the hall, his icy blue eyes piercing into the crescendo and creating the finest tranquility; pure silence.

His name was Erwin Smith, or as most students joked 'Commander Smith', due to his authoritative presence, his position as a conductor of the school's orchestra also made the nickname quite suitable.

"Alright people, get in your places. Sergei Rachmaninoff didn't die of advanced melanoma in order for you to mess his master piece 'Piano Concerto No. 2'," he said, his tone demanding with a hint of dark humor, making his way up to the conductor's post, "I hope you've all been practicing." His eyes pointing to certain beings in the ensemble.

Taking a seat at the achromic instrument, Armin dug out his sheet music, placing his coal colored jacket and plaid scarf aside, his fingers putting light pressure on the onset notes; taking deep exhales as he watched Smith for the signal.

"A one, a two," the wind instruments readied at the lips, the strings placing their bows at light pressure at the nylon strings, percussionists tapping mallets lightly against the horse skin cover, "A one, two, three, four!"

It almost seemed sudden, as his wand started waving swiftly through the air igniting a crescendo of strings as their horse hair bows pressured into thin nylon, barely missing a beat he flies over to percussion, drums start beating in time with his feet. One could only watch in awe, at the magnificence of the occasion; the ravishing resonance never falling upon deaf ears.

It was then and there, as his wand waved over silencing the ascension, amethyst eyes piercing over to the blonde; the signal.

Digits placed onset, he took a sharp breath as he finally awoken his senses from their sleep depravity.

It was then, when his fingers flew across the alabaster and melanoid keys, was when every piece of his puzzle life had fallen perfectly into place, a complete picture.

He felt truly alive.

* * *

The train was much busier when the blonde boarded, which one could predict from the time. Most were leaving from work and school; trying to get themselves to their humble abode. Failing to unearth an open seat, Armin slackened into leaning against the metallic pole, trying to sustain his balance with each tumble, clenching it for dear life. Each jostle of the train slamming his cranium back and forth in whiplash. It was as if the train was trying to tell him to wake up before he went to work his late night hours at the dingy cafe.

The rest of his lectures had gone by in the same caliber as a snail drenched in fresh molasses; agonizingly slow and painful. He had slowly come out of his deprived state during his Advanced Conducting lecture, but had slowly fallen back into it when Hannes was trying to drone off his afternoon hangover in Music Theory. He had almost fallen back into slumber, but was kept awoken by the blatant and continuous drumming of one Jean Kirschtein, who had his earphones plugged in, quite unaware of the other people in the room.

_"Attention Passengers; We Are Now Stopping At The St. Sina Train Station, Have A Nice Rest Of Your Evening."_

The intercom monotonous, Armin struggled to straighten himself out, as his head was still recovering from the beatings of the pole, and stumbled out of the hot and humid contraption into the crisp late autumn air; once again met with a variety of noises and smells.

It was then, his now ringing ears picked up on a sound.

No, it wasn't an infant wailing nor a businessmen screaming.

Music.

It wasn't the cliche train station music one normally heard, it had its own tune. It was soft, yet it could be heard out of the hustle and bustle. Melodious, alluring and absolutely magnificently beautiful. He picked up a stride, following the sound, drowning out the curses and wailing, he could only hear that one sound, that one harmonious siren that made his ship crash onto the rocks of each note.

A mahogany bow soaring across nylon strings, calloused fingers plucking at each note, flying in mellifluous manner.

The siren behind such an alluring sound, a blonde beauty. Her leucous fringe bouncing and diving as her head and shoulder passionately wiggled with her tune, round eyes shut tight in, focused, as if she could see the melody with her closed eyes. Her complexion porcelain with slight undertones of salmon pink on her cheeks, only a few trickles of sweat lined her brow, enthusiasm; pure passion. You could feel it; few musicians truly bring their work through their heart, you could almost touch the passion that reverberated through your ear. She played almost like she would never touch the instrument again, like it was the last time her bony fingers would touch such mahogany. One would never find such mellifluousness in a melody, such strong emotion. Each nylon note she brought across her bow, seemed like she was plucking a piece from her soul; you never heard it anymore. In defiance of the baggy cloth she bore, her semblance screamed in absolute radiance.

The song ended with a slight sound of applause from the very few beings in the audience, tossing a variety of dollars, nickels, dimes and pennies as she stared coldly into the velvet case, the blonde dropping the last of his money in his wallet, leaving only an inquiry. But before he could form his words, she already spoke, her tone harsh and piercing like knives

"What are you fucking staring at?"

* * *

Hope you enjoyed reading :3


	2. Chapter 2

It would be one of those mornings, wouldn't it?

For some reason, despite the screaming and crying alarm beside her, she doesn't want to move. Annie lies in bed and rolls restlessly under the blankets, a twenty something with a bad haircut and a worse attitude. Her pillow is damper than usual, and she sits up to glare at the wet stains through the vermillion veins in her eyes, blurred and dazed. Reaching a thin finger up to her insomnia bruised under eye, tender puffy. The blotches on the alabaster fabric finally asserted her concerns, along with the distinct taste of strong metallic in her mouth.

Crying.

Off and on it had occurred, never really bothering to see a doctor of the sorts, knowing full well of the overbearing consequence - parents' separation blah blah blah severe isolationism blah blah blah blah and a bunch of other miscellaneous shit that somehow resulted in a cocktail drink of Zoloft, Effexor, Nardil and an assortment of other antidepressants, amphetamines, all used to numb the pain that stung in her breast. Few traumatic events in life allow for a zipper-like ease of closure, but she'd still cling to the false hope that she'd gotten over her parents separation. Sure they apologized, but apologies are like placing a band-aid over a severed limb; it only adds to the aches. The gaping wound from such a separation is now severely infected, pouring crimson fluid and puss down her chest; nicotine and Mozart her only tourniquets. But it's not like life will just give you one or two big hurdles to get over and then it's smooth sailing until you push up daisies. Each time she felt like she'd crawled tooth and nail out of the unending abyss of of her isolation, or the wound seemed to heal, the side would cave in, the wound would open and claret spill and she'd plummet back down into the gloaming Stygian chasm once again; hopelessly trying to close the wound, clawing with force and ferocity to see the azure heavens once again.

Maybe... maybe she's just secluded , and she should get a cat or something. Maybe she just needs someone in her life to care if she actually wakes up in the morning. There's Reiner and Bertoldt, they'd care surely, but they have their own lives, outside of work Annie rarely see's them anymore. As of now, it didn't matter if she dropped dead. She wasn't going much of anywhere.

She has the violin, which serves as a comfort, but it isn't human; it's a carved piece of wood with nylon strings. Surely it's a teddy to hold and sleep with, but it wouldn't care either. If she died it would probably be sold at some shoddy pawn shop to a juvenile who's parent's twist his arm to play; no one would give a shit whether it was her's or a hobo's, as long as you can play it.

To be corny, the piece of mahogany probably is the only reason she's alive.

After much denial and heinous grumbling she managed to throw back the stained bedding off - quite intrepid for the blonde, oh Great Annie; thou who sacrifices precious nutrition for a pack of Marlboro to ease stress whilst plucking out Amadeus Mozart's violin sonatas. Shuffling out of the bed; forcefully punching the wailing alarm. Only to be tugged forward by the howling dog she called an abdomen she opened the cupboards and searched desperately for a sign of breakfast.

She eventually poured a cup of trademark Frosted Flakes and Almond Milk in a plastic tub; no clean glass bowls. She hadn't bothered to clean the dishes in the past week or two, so alas this tub will have to make substitute. Shoveling the wet crisps down her throat, a sudden buzzing noise reverberated from the table. Irritated, she dropped the utensil, clenching the tub with white knuckles. Ripping the buzzing contraption out of the socket, she slammed her finger down to answer the infuriating caller.

"What do you want?" She growled into the receiver.

The other line scoffed at her snarling tone, the voice smooth and in severe mockery, "Wow, who woke the dragon?"

Reiner.

"Ha Ha," blunt sarcasm dripping from her throat like a Popsicle in August, "What do you want Reiner?"

"You're coming into work, right?"

"Unfortunately." Her voice droned, opening the pill cabinet to take the daily intoxication.

"And your car is working, right?" He inquired, sounding quite hopeful for the blonde.

"Yes." She sighed popping the azure pills in her open mouth.

"Can you drive me and Bert? My car's in the shop..."

The consistency of Reiner's car problems had gotten agonizing at this point, resulting in an eye roll, "Take the train then."

"Annie, come on," he whined, sounding just like a five year old, stretching the 'e' and the 'o' he was groveling.

"Why can't you take the train?"

She put away the pill bottle, shutting the cabinet as she tossed the tub of her breakfast in the pile of grubby dishes. Marching her way back to the bedroom to change into her classic work clothes.

"Annie, please. Can you just pick us up?" He pleaded, once again causing an eye roll. A sigh, a grumble and then ending in confirmation of a muttered "Okay."

"Thanks, Bert and I owe you."

"Mhm..."

He hung up.

She placed the phone down on the bureau, ample sweatpants, socks, and a food stained shirt go on in due time as she paces between kitchen and bedroom getting ready for work with the steady hum of the lousy excuse of a radiator for company. The autumn weather was surely quite arctic as the months ticked down the days to the first sprinkle of a snowflake, pulling up umbra taut leggings, yanking on an assumably clean dark ashen turtle neck, lacing timberlands, fitting on sinewy work gloves and snapping a final button on her alabaster coat to brace the glacial winds of early mornings.

A vague feeling of resistance builds a high wall, bashing and clasping the door, clenching the brass knob for a mere minute of hesitation, before storming her way down the companionway.

It's a Wednesday, so she's two days to the end of the week, but it also means she's pretty fatigued by now; her shoulders persisting a dull throb from the hefty pieces of shit she moved from a building to an eight wheeler moving truck; she needed a shoulder rub. Hell a full body shiatsu treatment wouldn't be half bad; alas Annie could barely make a enough wage to pay off monthly dues, much less afford an osteopathy treatment.

Early hour klaxon blares sounded from the bustling down town streets; the alarm clocks of the metropolis, awakening its residents of a new dawn, a new day to start something over, change their lives. Flashing middle digits as well as consistent bawling out windows a snooze button, only to reappear 5 minutes later, a brutal, unending cycle, the off button broken and the plug affixed tightly in the wall. Groaning at these noises, she had never become accustomed to the tumult of the bustling borough; the noises only made her bones ache even more so.

Swabbing under her muzzle, a broken faucet in this time of year; dripping, leaking vomitus dribbles of bright virescent nostril goo, snorting habitually; only this makes it worse, as the muck accumulates at the back. Making it much more austere to respire. She truly despised this matter one would call a 'stuffed nose', it was a sure and discomfort affliction in the ass, that screamed the coming of Jack Frost and Santa Clause.

Digging her keys out of her coat pocket compressing the unlock clasp, resulting in a flash of luminous head and back lights and a light yet vociferous 'ding'.

Ascending into the calico synthetics, hammering the door shut of her minuscule Ford Electric, she penetrated the key in the hole and turned it; a crescendo of the engine ignited a thunderous clamor as her boot depressed into the gas pedal, driving forward as she weaves her way through agonizing traffic, she sits against the seat with a deep lament. Their apartment wasn't far, only a few blocks down from the motel, this back up would make the trip a lot longer, in Annie's case, about three times more agonizing. Once she picked them up, she would have to bang a u-turn and brace for another round of excruciating traffic to work with Reiner blaring the radio station notoriously serenading as he tried to harmonize with AC/DC's Brian Johnson in the dreaded anthem known as Highway To Hell; in hopes of brightening Annie's morning gnarl, only to make it much worse. The backup would additionally pile another anguishing weight on her small shoulders; as the boss would be pissed once more and let out all his repressed apoplexy explode right in her face.

Constricting the leather disk as she strenuously waited for the back to the let, almost preparing to become one of thousand city alarm clocks, forcefully smiting indenting her gloved hand into the horn, a vehement crescendo blaring from the umbra sterling; aggravated. It was then, in a mere moment of seconds, she was flaunted a middle extremity followed a choleric string of shrieked blasphemies, emitting from the grandiose vermilion truck that could make a better door than a window in the torturous dawn. Propping her elbow against the window, she laid her head and gaped as she kneaded her half lidded amethyst orbs, resting her cranium in the palm of her glove.

"Come on..." she muttered under her yawning exhale.

"The accelerator is on the right..."

After an excruciating forty five minutes being surrounded by exasperating imbeciles who blare their automobile horns every three seconds because certain people would stop in front of them, Annie hadn't moved one bit, but even yet she still got alarms shoved into her eardrums, it was a great astonishment that her crimson bodily fluids hadn't leaked out of her head.

Coming into view, a brawny fair, platinum haired man, tapping his foot acrimoniously as he shot a glare at her vehicle as she circulated to the corner. Beside him a gangly, a mile long, string bean of a man with ashy brunet hair; he waved genuinely at the car, although you could see the anxiety in buckets of sweat pouring down his achromatic complexion.

The blonde climbed into the passenger seat; whilst the string bean managed to sequestered himself in the back seat, her minuscule automobile; his head squeezed up against the ceiling.

"It's about time Annie. What the hell took you so long?"

Annie planted her foot on the gas turning the corner, once again face to face with seemingly endless line of motors, leaning herself back into the chair with an irritant exhale; pointing out the patent headache that road ahead of them. "Traffic's backed up."

"Great... Shadis is going to murder us."

"Don't hold it like that you twit! You're going to spill it!"

A quite cranky woman cried who's face was scarred with age, sagging skin, feeble bones leaning awkwardly, cowered over a polished pikestaff. Stalking the trio through fogged glasses, making sure that any of them didn't put anything down too harshly, hold something upside down, or break something of sentimental value. The ancient woman raved apprehensively each time they did so, so one had to be quite cautious of whatever poorly packaged piece of shit they carried out to the moving van. It was bad enough to have Shadis haunting them, he was consulting with the elder's supposed daughter, but kept looking over at the trio with piercing eyes that could almost burn a hole in a steel door. You knew he didn't have any reliance, based on their previous works, and the string of incidents that occurred when the trio helped with a move.

Reiner had been trying to spook Bertholdt the entire day, considering the house was quite ancient with cobwebs sporadically spread, only adding to the creepiness of the house. The string bean had been carrying a super upscale and ritzy mirror out the door, Reiner, who hid around the corner popped out in front of the unsuspecting and clearly clueless brunet. Bertholdt, clearly quite petrified and frazzled, shrieked and grievously let the mirror slip out of his sweaty palms. Inevitably the mirror shattered; resulting in a cocktail of lawsuits, death threats, and even shutting down the entire company. The boss couldn't afford that again, so Shadis kept the trio tied at a noose, threatening to dropkick the chair below and hang them on the old oak tree.

In non-literary terms, terminate their sorry asses.

Annie wiped the perspiration trafficking on her brow with a free sleeve, her sweat freezing to icicles in the arctic winds. One could as she deeply exhales, each breath a cloud, her nose dribbling on her upper lip, snorting painfully into her already clogged nasal cavity; a mountain of boxes weighing on her gloved hands, grunting and cursing as she waddled through the frost stained grass. She swore behind the tawdry cardboard and cheap packaging tape, she was actually carrying box after box of piles, abundances, of pebbles and extremely small boulders. Stacking the arm full on skyscraper piles of other junk, she climbs back to the concrete as she assists Bertholdt with his tower of boxes; hell he may be tall, but he's no brawn.

In her attempts to grasp the elephantine mound of boxes, her body worn down from anxiety and lack of somnolence; Annie's boot misses the first step backwards, causing her to forlornly plunge to the icy tar. The sensation of falling hits her brutally, takes her breath away; the boxes she was holding plummeted savagely to her chest, causing Bertholdt to tremble, swearing he heard a slight snap in her rib cage. The spasm in her spine is almost unbearable, her teeth grinding, pulverizing together, her triceps wobbling as it takes a herculean effort to lift the box off her breast. After the night she'd had, Annie supposed it wasn't too much to inquire for the universe to cut her some slack; but apparently, the forces that be had other plans, perhaps wanting to have a good guffaw at her convulsions.

It takes a laborious effort to get her up to her wobbling appendages, trying to shift her feet to steady on the icy concrete, in a fluster, a petrified Bertholdt grabs her hand in a final yank to ease her stance; her breast aches as she tries to catch an inhale.

"I'm okay... let's just get this done."

Her words are spoken in shallow huffs of exhales, wiping her upper lip as she snorts up the atrociousness that decided to slip out from the inner depths of her proboscis, leaving a beryl, sap like slime on the outer wedge of her gauntlet, muttering in disgust. She's quite congested, one could hear it in her short huffs, the harshness of her tone cling still to her obstructed tongue. Her sinuses ached occasionally, and her eyes stung ferociously when exposed to even the lowest of brightness. She figured it was lack of sleep, but it could be much more, but Annie in all sense didn't give it any significance, it didn't matter. Much like the intoxication and desolation, they aren't significant, any sign of it become repressed into the sequestered corners of her cerebrum, she didn't want to feel it. It would go away, much like this sinus affliction, with a few pills her cavity can be cleared.

Only some things took much longer than others to disappear.

The rest of the job goes without much escapade or incident, waving a final sendoff to the elderly women, Keith pulls away from the minuscule abode leaving the trio to take the protracted stroll back to Annie's car. The colossus van rounds the corner, Reiner pulled a cigarette pack from his coat pocket, Winston's. Cupping his gloved hands around the stick, his palms a roof for the light; protection. His inhales are deep, exhales emitting seemingly endless strings of smoke; he shoves the pack Annie's way, smoking was a habit of her stress. The taste and smell of cigarettes is an acquired taste, like beer or coffee or wine... the first time you taste coffee, it's so bitter that you have to put in a ton of sugar and cream just to get it down. But eventually, you can take away the sugar and cream and start appreciating the flavors that hide behind the bitterness. Bertholdt despised such a musky smell, but to the pair of blondes, it was bliss and they adored it. A stimulant, something numb anxiety, stitch a closed wound, and rebuild walls. Her head shakes, pushing Reiner's pursuit away, leaving her to only inhale second hand of his drawn out breaths. His face contorts into slight astonishment, "I'd never thought I'd see the day you turn down a Winston." Her orbs narrow in slight irritant, but her silence is locked tightly against her chest, she decided to keep her mouth shut.

It was that hush, that made the endless alarm clocks of each vehicle, much more bearable.

She unlocks the door to the apartment complex with a swipe, plodding up the stairs to her second-floor apartment which swings open with a creak as she pockets her keys. Annie's tired and he just wants a nap and a hot shower and to not be here for a few hours - but it was the leather case that sat impatiently on the sofa, that reawakened her lethargy.

Violin.

She would always go down to the train station every Wednesday and Sunday, playing a selected few pieces from Mozart and Vivaldi, it was a side job. To her legitimate, pain in the ass job of moving shit, it was only a dream to become her main job. She never earned a good amount of money anyhow, a few dollars and loose change, maybe an occasional ten, but never anything that can pay her towering rent and debt. The musicians are the plebeians of street performers, the lowest class that never earns a good enough wage to support themselves. Most of them being homeless, others being quite close to such a predicament. If one could somehow transform themselves into an entrancing primate wearing an idiotic fez that rode in circles on a unicycle, you would probably make millions; that was what made the most money. But alas, Annie wasn't a fluffy fur ball of enchantment that rode a unicycle, she was a monotonous, isolated human being who was quite close to living in her friends' apartment; she was just another cliche performer and that was that. She rips the case from the couch, and slams the door once more, there was no resistance no hesitation just a swing of a door; swept away to a brighter state of mind.

The sound of a well played violin is the sound of emotions, from the length of sadness to the shortness of expectations.

Sometimes, it's low pitch, whispering like the wind and warm like a blanket and then it gets higher and higher until the pitch is so high, it's borderline painful, but just before you reach the pain...it stops and get silenced...and then whispers again. A roller coaster of ear piercing highs of C Sharps, nose diving to the bellows of deepness of an A7, fingers flying and plucking in pure elegance. The notes spoke, in eloquence they were clear and sharp, a voice only the musician heard. While pedestrians only thought of the notes as a melodious sound, the musician could hear voices.

From sopranos to baritones, from squealing to thunders, the voices spoke loud clear as they wanted to be heard.

Each finger leaping, tossing gracefully on each string with light pressure, children playing hopscotch to the tune of the Four Seasons.

The game had ended, the voices silenced, as a small applause erupted from the very few listening. Dropping a variety of pennies, dimes, nickels and bills, sympathetic. None would give her a glance, just toss and walk, and when the glance was given it was that of empathy. Assuming she was a ragged, homeless bum, who hadn't the cash to afford a university. At some points, amidst the bills she would see business cards of recommended psychologists and physicians, these of course she would toss.  
She didn't need a doctor, she assumed she didn't look too much of a wreck.

She scanned the crowd, minuscule, some she'd seen before, faces that have watched her play on their way home. Stopping I'm the middle of their agonizing ride home to listen to her mediocre performance. Most were damsels and dukes of the elderly age, some maybe in their mid forties, but mostly the elderly, whose fingers shook as they tossed money in, who gave her pitiful, wrinkled smiles, happy to hear such a harmonious sound.

Although, today was... Different.

She could see a patch of sunflower locks, cerulean orbs, looking her figure up and down; scanning her. Wrapped in a melanoid coat and vermillion plaid, his lips curled in a simper. Maybe the age of nineteen maybe twenty, a university student.

But even as the crowd thinned out, he stayed, fishing his hands through his pockets. His eyes still pierced her, never faltering his gaze as he tossed what looked like the last of his cash. His smile remained, yet, it was different. It wasn't one of the pitiful smiles, it was one of respect, joy and happiness. The simper screaming in genial, as if he expected her to continue.

She couldn't say she was annoyed, he was the only one who honestly that paid much attention to her specifically. He was probably running late to work, but he had stopped to hear her roller coaster of screeching and bellowing strings. Still, she felt quite pissed off, shooting him an icey glare, hopefully to scare him off; his gaze still never faltering.

He didn't speak. He just... stared.

He was interested and that was what made her irritability soar through the roofs of the building.

"What are you fucking staring at?"

Her words were spat, piercing and sharp like needles. When she spoke, he seemed to stiffen slightly, his porcelain complexion fading to a shade of salmon; only a slight flustered.

"I-I'm admiring the harmony of the Four Seasons. Y-Your playing was magnificent."

Magnificent?

The words slide out his mouth, a compliment. She clenches the neck of the violin, her cheeks turning only a slight rose color.

Annie keeps her head lowered to hide her crimson complexion, gathering up the earnings from the casing shoving them in her coat pockets. Placing the mahogany on its velvet bed, deserving a nap, much like she.

"I-I've never seen you at the conservatory," He commented, quite fascinated was the sound of his voice. "Do you take classes there?"

"I don't go to the conservatory." She replied quite harshly, locking leather case with a gentle snap.

"The orchestra?"

"No."

She lifted the case beginning to make her way out of the bustling subway. He seemed to be more intrigued when she denied the conservatory and orchestra, perhaps her playing did interest some people. "How long have you been playing?"

"About 11 years."

He still pursued her. Even as she weaved her way past blaspheme sobbing men, and infant wailing reminding her much of her alarm clock. She just wanted to go home, she was done with the day.

"O-Oh same here! Except I play the piano-"

She stopped abruptly, her teeth clenched tightly together as she hissed blasphemies. She breathed, trying to slow down the ticking time bomb of her sentiments; she spun on her heel to face him, rubbing her temples. "Look... I'm extremely exhausted." She heaved, "I...I appreciate your interest but... Not tonight, okay?!" the final words sounded harsher than originally meant, the bomb was detonating quite quickly. The hopeful smile quickly faded, disappointment. His mouth quivered a bit, not in tears, Annie couldn't see tears.

"Oh, m-my apologies, I tend to get carried away sometimes." as quick as it faded, quirky, sheepish smile lit his face. He fished his pocket, feeling around for something. He yanked a crumpled ball of paper out of his pocket, unfolding the extremely folded parchment; fishing another pocket. Her brow narrowed, as he scribbled; throwing the ball at her open hand.

"I-I have to go to work anyway... If you're not busy, just call me! I-It'd be nice to talk to you..."

His cheeks turned darker as he sprinted up the steps; he was either late for work or flat out sexually was about to toss the crumpled rubbish in the trash bin, but her compunction made her stuff the parchment in her pocket; perhaps she was intrigued or just felt empathy towards his embarrassment. She wasn't sure why she kept it, and she probably never will. Instead of contemplating reason, her exhaustion dragged her by ear out of the bestir subway- trusting to go and crumple under stained bed sheets and a damp pillow, and get a decent sleep for once this week.

Despite the heavy gulp of sleeping tablets, Annie is left to tousle and roll under blankets, left a punching bag to the gloved hands of her master.

She doesn't sleep well that night.


End file.
